Vanishing Acts (42 page)

“Then why didn't she have a barrage of recollections about her abduction?” Emma poses, as I object. “Nothing further.”

I'm already approaching Dr. Rebbard again. “What if it wasn't traumatic?” I ask.

Vanishing Acts

“I'm not sure understand ...”

“What if, to Delia, the kidnapping wasn't something frightening? What if she considered it a relief, a way out from the sexual abuse? In that case, Dr. Rebbard, a memory of the abduction wouldn't have been triggered by her father's testimony, right?”

This time Dr. Rebbard gives me a full smile. “I suppose not, Counselor,” she says. Emma is showing me pictures of her son when the judge comes back with his ruling. “The issue here is whether we can forget events that took place,” Judge Noble says, “and if we can remember events that never took place. This topic, of course, is a highly charged one. No matter how I rule, and no matter what we say to the jury, we're going to be dealing with a situation where the jurors are going to have a hard time separating their feelings from the events being discussed.” He looks at Emma. “The greatest tragedy of this trial would be to believe another lie from Andrew Hopkins. And as it stands, the evidence is not reliable enough to justify inclusion.”

Then he turns to me. “I'm making a legal decision here, but I can't make the emotional ones. I'm damn sure my decision isn't going to make you very happy, son. But I want you to remember that even though I can rule out what happens from this point forward, I can't take back what's already been said. Maybe in New Hampshire those judges don't tell it like it is, but here in Arizona, we do. And I want you to know, Mr. Talcott, you may think your case hinges on this evidence, but I expect you're gonna do just fine without it.”

He gets up and exits; Emma behind him. I sit for a few moments in the empty courtroom. If this were like old times, I would go home and tell Delia that I'd lost the hearing. I'd repeat, verbatim, what the judge had said, and I'd ask her to interpret it. We'd dissect my performance until she finally threw up her hands and said we were going nowhere with any of this.

She will not be back tonight, I suppose. And we're still going nowhere. Andrew

Delia is the last person to enter the courtroom before the doors are shut. She is wearing a yellow dress and her dark hair is pulled back off her neck; it reminds me of a long, lovely sunflower. I have so much to say to her, but it is better done afterward, anyway; when I will likely have yet another reason to tell her I'm sorry. Beside me, Eric gets to his feet to address the jury. “You know what love is, ladies and gentlemen?” he asks. "It's not doing whatever the person you care for expects of you. It's doing what they don't expect. It's going above and beyond what you've been asked. That's what Andrew Hopkins should be charged with, you know. That's what he would plead guilty to, hands down.

“The prosecutor is going to talk to you about obeying rules. She's going to use words like 'kidnapping.' But there was no kidnapping here; there was no force. And as for rules, well, you know there are always exceptions. What you might not know, however, is that the same thing applies to the letter of the law.” Eric walks toward the jury. "The judge is going to tell you that if you find that Andrew had committed all the elements of kidnapping beyond a reasonable doubt, then you should convict him. Not that you have to ... not that you'd like to ... but that you should find him guilty. Why doesn't the judge say that you must find him guilty?

Because he can't. You, as jurors, have the ultimate authority and power to convict or not to convict–no matter what."

“Objection!” Emma Wasserstein steams. “Bench!” The two lawyers approach the judge. “Your Honor, he's telling the jury they can nullify the whole charge if they want to,” the prosecutor complains.

“I know,” Judge Noble says evenly. “And there's nothin' I can do about it.” When Eric turns around, he's stunned; I don't think he expected to get away with this. He swallows and faces the jury again. “The law is very deliberate, and it chooses its words carefully. And sometimes, on purpose, it opens the door for that gap between rule and reason. You have a choice to make, ladies and gentlemen. Some choices are not made lightly. Not the ones Andrew made, not the ones the law makes, and, I hope, not your own.”

Emma Wasserstein is so angry I expect to see sparks flying from her shoes. “Mr. Talcott has apparently been spending too much time with his client,” she tells the jury, “because he's just lied to you. He told you this isn't kidnapping, because there was no force involved. Well, nobody asked Bethany Matthews if she wanted to go. Maybe he didn't tie her up with duct tape and throw her in the back of his van for the ride to New Hampshire, but he didn't have to. He told a poor, innocent child her mother was dead. He told her that she had nobody but him. He did so much damage to this child in an effort to wrestle her out of her mother's home that he might as well have bound and gagged her. This was emotional duct tape, and Andrew Hopkins was a master.”

She turns to look at me. “But he didn't just affect the life of one victim. This rash, selfish act claimed two–Bethany Matthews, and her mother, Elise, who spent twenty-eight years waiting to see the child who'd vanished. This rash, selfish act gave Andrew Hopkins everything–the child, full custody, and freedom from punishment. . . until now.”

Emma moves toward the jury box. "For you to find Andrew Hopkins guilty of kidnapping, you must agree that he took a child without having the authority to do so, and that he did this with force. Andrew Hopkins himself even said on the stand that he had indeed kidnapped his daughter. You can't get much clearer than that.

“Yet, as Mr. Talcott said, rules don't always fit. Mr. Talcott pointed out that the law says you should convict, if all these conditions are met, but that you don't have to. Well, let me tell you why that's not quite as simple as he's making it out to be.” She walks over to Eric, “if we lived in a world where rules were trumped by emotions, then we'd be in a very uncomfortable place indeed. For example, I could do this”–without hesitation, Emma picks up Eric's briefcase and moves it to her own table–“because I like it better than mine. And if I could convince you from an emotional standpoint that I have good reason to like it better than mine, then hey, you would be justified in saying I was allowed to steal that briefcase.” She walks back toward Eric and picks up his glass of water, drinks it down. “If we lived in Mr. Talcott's world, I could come over here and drink his water, because I'm a nursing mother and I deserve it. But you know what? That kind of world would also be the place where rapists could do what they wanted because it was what they felt like at the time.” She approaches the jury again. “It would be the kind of world where if someone was overcome with rage, it would be okay to commit murder. And it would be the kind of world where, if someone could convince you it was really just an act of heroism, he could steal your child away from you for twenty-eight years.”

She hesitates. “I don't live in that world, ladies and gentlemen. And, I bet, neither do you.”

While the jury is deliberating, Eric and I hole up in a tiny conference room. He orders corned beef sandwiches from a kosher deli and we chew in silence. “Thank you,” I say after a moment.

He shrugs. “I was hungry, too.”

“I meant for representing me.”

Eric shakes his head. “Don't thank me.”

I take another bite; swallow. “I'm counting on you to take care of her.” He looks down at his hands, then sets down his sandwich. “Andrew,” Eric replies, “I think it might have to be the other way around.”

We are called back for a verdict in less than three hours. As the jury shuffles in, I try to read their faces, but they are inscrutable, and none of them meet my eye. Is that a sign of pity? Or of guilt?

“Will the defendant please rise?”

I do not think I have ever been as aware of my age as I am in that moment. It is nearly impossible for me to stand; I find myself leaning against Eric even when I try to remain straight and brave. When I cannot bear it any longer, I turn my head and look for Delia in the gallery. I hold on to her face, a focal point while the rest of the world is going to pieces around me.

“Have you reached a verdict?” the judge asks.

A woman with tight red pincurls nods. “We have, Your Honor.”

“What say you?”

“In the case of The State of Arizona versus Andrew Hopkins, we find the defendant not guilty.”

I am aware of Eric crowing with delight, of Chris Hamilton slapping us both on the back. I try to find enough air to breathe. And then Delia is there, with her arms around me and her face pressed into my chest. I hold tight and I think of something Eric said, just after his closing statement. It's not a real defense, he murmured, but sometimes that's all you've got.

Sometimes it even works.

There is a commotion as the reporters vie for Eric's sound bite. Gradually, the crowd falls back to allow Emma Wasserstein passage. She shakes Eric's hand, and Chris's, and then leans forward to give Eric's briefcase back to him. But as she does, she comes close enough to whisper to me. “Mr. Hopkins,” she says, a truth meant only for me, “I would have done it, too.”

Fitz

I am trying to find a back exit that we might use to escape when Delia appears and throws herself into my arms. I'm still not used to that; immediately every conscious thought or rational plan flies out of my head while I just enjoy the feel of her. “Congratulations,” I say into her hair.

“I want to tell Sophie,” she announces. “I want to tell her and then I want to drive straight to the airport and get on the first plane to New Hampshire.” And what happens then? Delia, so happy about the verdict, hasn't even touched down close enough to ground to remember all that's been left behind. It's nice to know that the atomic bomb missed your house, but you will be cleaning up the rubble for some time before your front path is clear.

As it turns out, I don't want to write the story of her life. I want a series.

“Stop thinking,” Delia says, the same advice I once gave to her. She sweeps forward and, jubilant, kisses me, which is just when Eric turns the corner. She can't see him; I'm the one facing the opposite end of the hall. But she breaks away from me when she hears his voice. “Oh,” he says quietly. “It's like that.” He looks at me, and then at Delia. “I was trying to find you,” he murmurs. “I was . . .” He shakes his head and turns around.

“Stay here,” I tell Delia, and I hurry after Eric. “Wait up.” He stops walking, but he doesn't turn around.

“Can I talk to you?”

Eric hesitates, but then he slides down the wall to sit on the floor. I sit down beside him. In spite of my facility with language, I can't think of a single word to say to make this better.

“Let me guess,” Eric says. “You never meant for it to happen.”

“Hell, yes, I did. I've wanted her since you two started dating.” Surprised, Eric blinks at me, and then even laughs a little. “I know.”

“You did?”

“For God's sake, you're about as subtle as Hiroshima, Fitz.” He sighs. “At least I didn't lose the girl and the case.”

I look down at the floor. “Incidentally, I never meant for it to happen.”

“I should beat the crap out of you.”

“You can try.”

“Yeah,” Eric says quietly. “I just might do that.” Then he glances up at me. “If I can't take care of her myself, there's no one else I'd want to take my place.” He hesitates, and when he speaks a moment later, his voice is heavy with hope. “I'm going to clean up,” he vows. “This time for good.”

“I want you to,” I tell him. “I'd like that.” Eric will be with us–maybe not as often, maybe not even in the same neighborhood, maybe not for a while. But we are three; none of us would have it any other way.

He smiles, his hair falling over his brow. “Be careful what you wish for,” Eric says.

“I've learned my fair share about abduction.”

We sit for a few more moments, although there's really nothing left to say. This is new to me, too, an entire conversation that takes place in silence, because the heart has its own language. I will remember what Eric says even though he doesn't say a word. I will tell it to her.

Delia

There is one other person who hangs back in the courtroom, unwilling to face the storm of media that is waiting on the other side of the doors. My mother waits at the end of the aisle, her hands clasped in front of her. “Delia,” she says. “I'm happy for you.”

I stand a foot away from her, wondering what I am supposed to say.

“I guess you'll be going back home, then.” She smiles a little. “I hope we can stay in touch. Maybe you'll come back for a visit. You're always welcome to stay with us.”

Us. At the mention of Victor, something shuts down inside of me. Eric says that we can try to press charges against Victor if the statute of limitations hasn't run out yet, that this would be a whole new trial. As much as I want him to pay, there is a part of me that wants to just put it behind me. But even more, I want my mother to believe me. I want her, for once, to take my side instead of her own.

“He hurt me,” I say baldly. “I did remember. But you don't... so it couldn't have happened, right?”

She shakes her head. “That's not–”

“True?” I finish, the word bitter on my tongue before I swallow it. “I wanted you to be my mother. I wanted one so badly.”